An Empty Shell of a Bullet
by hybrid-chan
Summary: John puts himself into misery after recent occurences. He seeks neither consolation nor warmth, just pities himself. Post-Reichenbach, contains spoilers.


Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. The ticking of the clock makes it undeniable – he's gone. He's gone forever. The longer John is alone in his

(their)

apartment at 221B Baker Street, the louder the clock ticks. No, not just one clock, every clock in the entire world seems to whisper „he's dead" inceasingly, driving him insane. Now, he's sitting on the sofa, all curled up under a blanket, staring into the void. Or maybe it is staring into him – the void in his own mind, a gun-shot through his brain, depriving him of his ability to feel anything. The void doesn't feel just numb – it's a solid shape and its vertexes stab him until he's unconsious from unsufferable pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. _I should change my name to Pain, _he's thinking_, since I'm nothing more than this now._

He's looking around the room uninterested – if it wasn't for Mrs Hudson's care, he would die of dust allergy which he never had but developed recently. She would air the apartment every few days, cook for him

(not that he would eat more than a few bites, just to keep himself alive)

and she tried to console him. _I know it's tough, darling,_ she would say, _you know how dear Sherlock was to me too. I know you miss him._ The thing is, she had no idea. She just babbles about the pain of loss and some puny sadness she would feel. Sadness. A child can be sad after losing its favourite teddy bear, but John was morose. No less than that. He puts himself into this grief to prove everybody around him how much suffering he's enduring, how strong he is. But it's nothing but a face, an empty shell of a bullet – he may look like he could explode any second, but a keen observer would easily see this pose through. THE keen observer.

John clenches his his fists on the blanket. It's been two month, three weeks, seven hours, twenty three minutes and sixteen seconds. Seventeen. Eighteen. An ethernity. He counts every single second, yet he's not able to tell what time it is now. He wouldn't sleep – he would hibernate for hours or days to wake up just as tired as he was before. He wouldn't eat – he would chew, digest and excret the few bites he agreed to swallow. He wasn't living – he was solely existing. His life is mere grief and he is sorry to be alive, all because of this one day almost three months

(two months three weeks four days seven hours twenty four minutes fifty one seconds)

ago. John would play this day over and over again inside his head, trying to come up with a different ending.

Option A: Moriarty kills everybody in the range of half a mile around the hospital with explosives he hid earlier. (that's rough John, you're a pesimist)

Option B:_ He_ makes Moriarty call off his snipers. (now it's too positive)

Option C:_ He_ jumps, but lands on the lorry safely. (barely possible, John, the odds are close to zero)

Option D: Moriarty shots himself but misses, cancels this sick game just to die of blood loss a few stores lower three hours later. (too much crappy telly, John, cut it out)

Option E: Moriarty's minion kills John, but it makes _Him_ think more efficiently

(even more)

due to the adrenaline rush. _He_ disarms Moriarty.

_He_ wins. _He_'s alive.

Every scenario he would think of seems just as probable as any other, making it impossible to distinguish them from reality. This is what poisons him the most. This sick confidence

(almost like religious faith)

in _His_ abilities. _He_ was just a human, and _He_ died. The fact _He_ was a superior individual doesn't change a thing. _He_ died from the hand of the only person who could ever outclass _Him_ – _Himself_. _He _got so carried away with this duel of minds Moriarty arranged_ He _carelessly placed _His_ life on the stakes – and won. Every other person would sigh with relief, receive the prize

(life life plenty of lives)

and return to their reality, but not _Him_._ He_ felt disappointed – another defeated enemy. The game sure gave _Him_ the thrill _He_ had been seeking since the case of the Woman and losing it was a defeat despite the win. It was a stalemate John knew even _He _couldn't overcome.

Still, he would miss_ Him_ every month, week, day, hour, minute and second.


End file.
